


Mists of Magic

by Callofthemoon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Friend Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Dead Sheriff Stilinski, Emotional pain, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, a lot of other people are dead too but what is death to the power of love, even me, for both the characters and the reader, magic works weirdly, picking and choosing from canon in a way that makes sense to no one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:34:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26474992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callofthemoon/pseuds/Callofthemoon
Summary: Magic was the mist rising off the ocean. It was the echoes of crashing power, unstoppable and ephemeral and pervasive for those close enough to know. Magic flitted from person to person in their time of need, it never settled down and it never concentrated beyond the initial wisps of inspiration it drew. Stiles often told customers that magic was like playing craps with loaded dice, you were likely to get the outcome you wanted, but eventually the universe would catch on.or the one where Stiles can't escape the nemeton no matter what he does and magic doesn't care about any emotional pain that he has.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

When asked most people thought magic was a farce, even amongst the supernatural, magic was a ghost story. The werewolves and selkies and vampires whispered of mages moving mountains and sorcerers shooting sparks from their fingers, witches conducting rituals on the full moon and necromancers raising the dead. But the whispers often led to laughter, the druids careful meditation and herbal treatments the closest most saw of magic. Even when confronted with a spark, most shunned the idea that the universe could be so easily manipulated. The idea that magic was both common and easy would set most people chuckling at the absurdity and the more greedy to plotting. Stiles himself once thought he would have to train for years before mastering a craft that seemed so foreign, and yet it only took him a few nights of Adderall fueled research to understand much of his foundation for the last few years.

Magic was the mist rising off the ocean. It was the echoes of crashing power, unstoppable and ephemeral and pervasive for those close enough to know. Magic flitted from person to person in their time of need, it never settled down and it never concentrated beyond the initial wisps of inspiration it drew. Stiles often told customers that magic was like playing craps with loaded dice, you were likely to get the outcome you wanted, but eventually the universe would catch on. He never continued an explanation past that, but the implications of death and destruction were clear.

His customers heeded his warning or they moved on. One of the perks of running the only true magic shop in the country was that he could make the rules. It also, unfortunately, meant that he was in charge of cleaning up the messes magic left in its wake. Stiles understood that his sight was unusual, that his ability to watch magic dance through people lives was odd, and that it afforded him the ability of manipulating magic more than his counterparts. But Stiles remembered the fear it afforded as well.

The first time the aura shone through the trees, searching for him, Stiles had thought he was about to die. Getting plucked out of a crappy motel and carried through the woods on the tendrils of shimmering magic could do that to a person. He still isn’t sure what the magic wanted or why he was chosen, but he hoped his shop and his never-ending care balanced the gifts he had been given. 

Stiles found himself entranced by the magic that had dominated his life every day since it stole him away that fateful stormy evening. Today was no exception, a coffee pot bubbled, unplugged, in his kitchen while he grabbed his cleanest clothes. It wasn’t until he looked out his kitchen window that he cursed. Because while he slept his apartment and little shop had moved again. Pulled towards the most recent magical showdown for the second time that month. But Stiles wasn’t getting to explore Portland this time, he wasn’t hiking through Yellowstone or admiring the dessert.

No.

Stiles found himself back at the one place he hoped never to return too, Beacon Hills.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time the shop moved, Stiles, quite understandably, freaked out. He had still been relatively new to the world of magic, still fresh from the betrayal that ran him out of Beacon Hills, still thinking logically in a world that held no longer held any logic. His first thought was on the amount of attention a magically appearing building was going to draw. His second, was trying to figure out where the hell he was.

Three years later he understood the push and pull of magic. He likened it to Star Wars, even if no one was around for him to tell. His shop moved to wherever there was a disturbance in the force.

Fortunately, his limited computer skills grew enough that he could maintain a consulting website; because while the magic made people forget his shop hadn’t always been there, having a constantly moving shop made repeat customers hard. The consistent inconsistency fit Stiles mood, but he depended on the consultations from his website and the rare ingredients he was able to ship out to stay fed.

He learned everything he could about the supernatural forces that surrounded them. He watched magic flit through peoples lives, and tried to keep people safe in any way he could. Even on a good day, Stiles knew he was a story for the most desperate, the hail mary for anyone who thought that there was no way out. Any time the shop moved he knew things were in bad shape, and his appearance was always welcome. He wondered if this time would be different, when he had to stare down his former town, former mentors and former friends

Stiles finished his coffee staring out the window. Staring at the diner he used to go to with his Dad, long before the supernatural was real. He remembers that they had the best curly fries. He wonders if they still do.

He decides to walk around town a bit, see if he can figure out why the magic drew him here. Hoping against hope that he can scurry away before his old pack finds him. The second he walks out his door he knows this is a bad idea. The whole place is almost too much of a time capsule to stand. He contemplates rushing back to his apartment and locking down the shop, but he has lived at the whim of magic for years, it wouldn’t take kindly to him turning his back now. Besides, he’s been seen; he can hear the whispers, watches people do a double take.

The sheriffs boy, the one who had disappeared halfway through his senior year in the wake of his father’s death, was back in town. In times like this, one can do only one thing: hold your head high and watch for trouble.

A few hours in, Stiles is frustrated. Identifying the problem wasn’t going to be an issue, overall, magic seems to have fled the town. Stiles had never seen it before, but it means that someone is hoarding it. And Stiles has found that in the grand scheme of things anyone who was stealing magic in quantities this high was up to no good. But he couldn't see where it was and certainly couldn't find a reason. He only saw an absence of color, like the whole town was behind a filter. People looked listless, unaware of why, but feeling it all the same.

He wound his way back to that same diner, the same sign was in the window, promising coffee he could never stomach and hours he knew weren't kept. He stared at the door for a few minutes before steeling himself to enter. He still wasn’t prepared.

The smell, the décor, if he thought the town hadn’t changed, the diner set a new standard. He could almost imagine sliding into a booth waiting for his dad to slip out of a shift to join him. He can practically see Derek’s ears turning pink as Erica joshes with him, Boyd rolling his eyes at the absurdity of his girlfriend.

The memory gripped him so strongly he missed Doris trying to greet him, startling when she reached towards him. He hadn’t been touched in a non-violent way in years, and he didn’t think the diner needed him to break down at 2 o’clock in the afternoon. He dodged the hand and made his way to his old booth. His ears were still ringing, but he tried to offer a smile to Doris, tried to reassure her that things were going to be okay. Even if they never were, and he couldn’t see how they could ever be again. Everyone he ever came here with is dead.

The town was filled with ghosts and betrayal. Scott had chased him out, driven him from town, even knowing that Stiles’ chance for survival without a pack was almost non-existent.  
But Stiles should know better than to think of such things. Speak of the Devil and he shall appear.

A tinkling bell rang the arrival of the resident alpha, power stolen with a swipe of claws as Derek tried to get them out of Argent's clutches. Stiles felt his anger rise at the sight of his old friend, knew Scott had tracked him down when the rumors of his return had reached Deaton's. Across a sea of empty tables their eyes met and Stiles just knew, no matter how many awful situations he had been in over the last few years, things were about to get a lot worse.

**Author's Note:**

> I am hoping to write and write and write with the motivation of kudos and comments.  
> If I missed any tags let me know. 
> 
> I promise you there is going to be a happy ending. There is too many sad things this year not to give our characters every happiness they deserve.


End file.
